There's an insanely hot guy living upstairs—6'3", pale skin, with gold-rimmed glasses. He's Manhattan's most expensive millionaire divorce attorney. He looks so ascetic you'd think he'd step back if a woman came within three feet. But on the third night after I moved into this old Brooklyn apartment, the noise from upstairs was like the bed being torn apart, as if it were being ripped apart. Bed banging against the floor, a woman panting—so loud it almost woke me up even with my 102°F fever. Intense. Maddening. If I hadn't been forced to listen to the whole thing, I might have wished them a happy marriage. I held out until early morning, then finally opened the resident group chat and messaged the aloof lawyer in 7A: [Could you please keep it down? I really need to sleep.] He replied instantly: [I'm working late in Midtown.] I stared at the screen, my feverish mind snapping awake. Working late? Then who the hell was the man rolling around in bed with his wife upstairs? The next second, a transfer popped up on my phone. $1,100. Then came his second message: [Keep the door for me. Don't let anyone inside get away.]